


Here Might You Bless Me

by morning_softness



Series: Your Presence and Your Favors [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Communication, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Relationship Discussions, Self-Worth Issues, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_softness/pseuds/morning_softness
Summary: He should reassure Jon, tell him he didn’t mean it like that, that he still loves him.  Say ‘I really love you, you know,’ in the present tense.  Except Martin is tired of lying, to other people and to himself.  Martin’s so very, very tired, tired down to a place far beneath his bones.  All his emotions are like wet-on-wet watercolor: pale and spread out and diluted, blending into each other in a way that’s impossible to sort out, and none of them feel like what he used to call love.Martin doesn’t want to be alone again.  He doesn’t wantJonto leave him alone again.  But Jon loves Martin so much it’s exhausting, and Martin doesn’t have anything left to give, to keep him by his side.Martin’s changed after Jon pulls him out of The Lonely, and he’s sure that Jon won’t want to stick around once he figures that out.  After all, it turns out Jon has a lot of love to give, and who would want to waste their love on someone who can’t return it?  Jon convinces him he’s not going anywhere.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Your Presence and Your Favors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074047
Comments: 10
Kudos: 81





	Here Might You Bless Me

**Author's Note:**

> CW:  
> Depression  
> Internalized ableism  
> Mention of difficulty eating  
> Possibly aphobia (Martin is worried he doesn’t love Jon enough/correctly)

Martin wakes in the morning with Jon lying next to him in the safe house bed, snuggled up close against his side. It feels good to lay in bed: soft and warm and cozy. The sheets are clean and smooth, and the duvet provides just the right amount of weight and pressure. Jon’s body is a warm and comforting presence, a solid reminder that Martin is no longer alone.

If it had been even a year ago, Martin would have been ecstatic and terrified in equal measure at the idea of staying in the same house as Jon, let alone sleeping in the same bed, feeling the warmth of Jon’s body pressed against his. Martin imagines his past self would be trembling with nerves in this situation: barely breathing or breath coming hard and fast, heart hammering in his chest so hard it makes his ribs ache, his skin tingling at every point of contact even through the covering layers of pajamas and sheet, lying awake sleepless as he counts Jon’s steady breaths beside him.

Now Martin just slowly rolls over, turning away from the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, and considers going back to sleep.

’I really loved you, you know,’ he’d told Jon, back in The Lonely, and it was true. Martin’s feelings for Jon had slowly built from a painfully embarrassing crush to a love so strong he had been willing to die to protect him. Then...well, then he almost _had_ died, and Jon had risked his own life and committed murder to save him, and what had Martin given him in return? ‘I really loved you,’ he’d said, ‘loved,’ past tense, implying that he no longer felt that way.

He feels guilty about that. He knows how much that must have hurt Jon, and Jon’s been so very gentle with him in the days since: so caring and solicitous, cooking proper meals for the two of them even though Jon barely needs to eat anymore, keeping up a steady stream of conversation even when Martin can’t muster more of a response than the occasional ‘mhm’, showering Martin with physical touch to keep him grounded in reality, following him from room to room making sure Martin never feels alone, while also so careful to respect the boundaries even Martin can’t fully articulate.

He should reassure Jon, tell him he didn’t mean it like that, that he still loves him. Say ‘I really love you, you know,’ in the present tense. Except Martin is tired of lying, to other people and to himself. Martin’s so very, very tired, tired down to a place far beneath his bones. All his emotions are like wet-on-wet watercolor: pale and spread out and diluted, blending into each other in a way that’s impossible to sort out, and none of them feel like what he used to call love.

Martin wonders dully if maybe he did die, back there in The Lonely, metaphorically at least. If the Martin who was in love with Jon, who loved Jon enough to die for him, died back then and the Martin who returned is just a ghost, a shell of the person who he was. He wonders how long it will take Jon to notice, or if he already has.

He wonders how long it will take before Jon gives up on being so tender, considerate, and perpetually _loving_ to him when all Martin has to offer in return is a cup of tea, a jumper to borrow, a hand to hold, a body to cuddle up against on the couch or in bed at night, quiet conversation, a smile or a gentle huff of laughter, outward forms without inner substance.

Martin doesn’t want to be alone again. He doesn’t want _Jon_ to leave him alone again. But Jon loves Martin so much it’s exhausting, and Martin doesn’t have anything left to give, to keep him by his side.

Martin knows he should make more of an effort, to give _something_ back to Jon, to show he cares, even if he can’t fully return his feelings. It wouldn’t even have to be some grand romantic gesture; just walk down to the village with Jon to pick up some more groceries or check out the used bookstore they’d noticed on their way to the safe house, or walk out through the countryside to look at the cows, or even just peel and section an orange and fix a plate of scrambled eggs to bring Jon breakfast in bed for once.

These days, though, doing anything at all feels like crawling through layers of cold mud at the bottom of a lake, trying to push his way up to the surface. It’s so hard just to get up out of bed. Everything takes such a monumental amount of effort that Martin constantly finds himself wondering if it’s worth it.

It’s only the growing urgency of his need to use the bathroom that finally gets Martin to drag himself out of bed, every slow and heavy movement accompanied by a creaking of aching joints and a prickling pressure behind his eyelids like a weight of sadness.

Once up, and his business taken care of, Martin decides he prefers tea over the likely-futile attempt to return to sleep. Jon is still sleeping, getting what looks like a rare bit of actual rest without nightmares. Martin doesn’t like the idea of disturbing him, but he knows how much Jon will worry if he wakes on his own later to find Martin gone.

”Hey,” Martin says softly, shaking Jon by the shoulder until he rouses enough to blink up at him, bleary-eyed and still half-asleep. “Sorry to wake you. I’m going outside to sit on the porch for a bit. I just wanted to let you know so you didn’t think I’d disappeared.”

”Thank you, Martin,” Jon mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I’ll—“ a wide yawn splits his face, interrupting his words, “—I’ll follow to join you shortly.”

”No hurry, yeah? You should get some rest.” Martin pats Jon’s shoulder and shuffles into the kitchen to make tea.

On the porch, Martin slowly lowers himself down to sit on the steps, carefully balancing the mug in one hand so he doesn’t spill it while gripping the porch railing with the other. He tries to ignore the twinge in his knees as he moves from a standing to a sitting position, shifting until he settles into something comfortable. He’s barely thirty, for pity’s sake, far too young for his joints to creak and ache like this. As usual, his body ignores his mental scolding and continues its complaints.

Martin sighs, his breath puffing out into the chill morning air, another small white cloud alongside the rise of steam from his mug. It’s drizzling, the whole sky dreary and colorless, blending in with the stretch of dull gray-and-sepia-toned landscape beneath. On a nice day, this place is beautiful: rolling verdant hills, shaggy wandering cows and fluffy sheep. On a sunny day, Martin can soak in enough of the surrounding warmth and beauty to reflect just a bit of it back. On a good day, the heavy quiet inside him feels like peace rather than exhaustion, and it’s easier for him to return the smiles, kind words, and jokes Jon throws at him. When it rains, though, all the colors seem to wash out of the world, and Martin can feel exactly how empty and colorless he is himself.

Martin finishes his cup of tea and wishes he had more. He could make more, of course, but heaving himself back up from his spot on the porch steps, walking to the kitchen, throwing the old teabag away and putting a fresh teabag in his mug, putting the kettle on and waiting for the water to boil, filling the mug with hot water, then walking back to the porch carrying it and slowly settling back into his spot without spilling it seems like such a time-consuming and laborious process. He feels tired just thinking about the effort it would take. Martin knows he would be happier, if only marginally, sitting on the porch with tea than without it. Only it’s such a _relief_ to have a good sit-down, and he’s finally managed to find a sitting position that eases the ache in his knees and hips. He doesn’t want to abandon that small comfort for the length of time it would take to procure the desired tea.

Martin’s rumination is interrupted by the sound of the safe house door opening and shutting and light footsteps as Jon comes out onto the porch to join him.

Jon’s wearing both one of Martin’s jumpers—sleeves rolled up at the wrists and loose enough at the neck it’s in danger of slipping off his shoulders—and a pair of Martin’s joggers, legs rolled up at the ankles and waistband bunched with a hair tie at the back.

There’s a faint twinge of emotion in him at the sight of Jon in his clothes, but it’s not quite strong enough to place it. Irritation at Jon for stealing his clothes when he knows Martin can’t return the favor and it will only make laundry day come more quickly? Tenderness at the implied closeness of sharing clothes with someone? Concern over how very small and fragile Jon looks like this? Jon _is_ tiny. Now that he’s had the opportunity to make a direct comparison, Martin’s pretty sure Jon’s entire waist is smaller than one of his thighs.

”Why don’t you wear your own clothes?” Martin asks, settling for a mild exasperation. As much as he wishes he could muster fondness, this is the easiest emotion to dredge up.

”I am,” Jon says. “I’m wearing two of my own shirts under this,” he pulls at the collar of the jumper to show Martin what’s underneath, “and a pair of trousers under your joggers—I couldn’t layer two of those—and three pairs of socks. I absolutely draw the line at wearing a coat or gloves in the house.” He sits down on the steps next to Martin and leans against his side, shivering slightly in the early-morning chill despite his layers.

”We’re sitting on the porch,” Martin says, “so we’re technically not ‘in the house.’” He wraps an arm around Jon and pulls him closer, trying to share some of his own warmth with him.

”The porch is part of the house,” Jon argues, “so the same principle applies.” Still, he doesn’t resist Martin’s clumsy attempts to warm him.

Martin can feel the dull ache in his middle that he’s learning to recognize again as hunger. He should get up and go back inside, fix them both something to eat, get Jon warm and bully him into eating enough breakfast that he doesn’t just waste away into nothing. Except cooking food would be even more of an effort than making tea, and Martin’s not sure he can muster enough energy for the task. Then after eating there’s washing the dishes, and brushing teeth, and Martin really _should_ do some laundry so they both have enough clean clothes to wear, and then it will be late enough to start thinking about fixing lunch, and... Was being alive always this much _work_? No wonder Peter was always so eager to have Martin handle as much of the day-to-day Institute business as possible. No, that’s not right, Peter was farther along than Martin was, he probably didn’t need to bother with things like eating or brushing his teeth or doing laundry. Martin doesn’t think he’d _ever_ seen Peter change his clothes. His captain’s uniform had probably been just as much a part of him as his hair.

Martin’s teeth clink against the ceramic mug as he tries to distract himself from thoughts of Peter Lukas with a sip of tea, misjudging the distance between the cup and his face. He winces at the sound and texture. The mug is empty, anyway. He never bothered to refill it. Jon would probably get him another cup of tea, if he asked. Or even without asking, if he noticed that Martin is currently sipping at an empty mug like a child playing out a pantomime tea party. It feels wrong to ask him. Making tea has always been Martin’s thing, one of the ways he shows people he cares about them, the one thing he’s reliably done for Jon since those early days when he felt like it was the only thing he _could_ do reliably without Jon scolding him for somehow messing it up. If Martin loses that too, then he really won’t have anything left to offer.

“I love you,” Jon says apropos to nothing, snuggling closer up against Martin’s side and nuzzling his face into Martin’s neck.

Martin’s arm drops limply from Jon’s shoulders, and he swallows hard, eyes prickling. This is the part where he should tell Jon he loves him, present tense. It wouldn’t even be dramatic, just casually repeating back to Jon the same phrase that seems to slip so easily from his lips these days. It’s only three words, three syllables; it should be easy enough, and Jon deserves that much from him at least, so why does Martin suddenly feel like his tongue is made of wet sand when he tries to speak? _Just say it,_ he tells himself sternly, but somehow those three simple words get stuck in his throat and he can’t push them out. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, his voice barely more than a choked whisper.

Jon pulls back slightly, looking at Martin with concern. “What’s wrong?” He asks, reaching out a hand to brush the wetness on Martin’s cheek.

When had Martin started crying? Now that he’s conscious of them, he can feel the tears seeping from both eyes and running down his face, soundless and steady as rain.

“Martin, what’s wrong?” Jon asks again. “Is it because I borrowed your clothes without asking? Or did I say something that upset you?” Jon’s just asking, there’s no compulsion there; Martin could lie if he wanted to, say it’s nothing, or try to find an explanation Jon would believe. He used to be good at that, figuring out what people wanted from him and feeding it back to them, telling them what they wanted to hear.

Now he’s just sad and tired in a way that sleep never seems to touch, tired down to the marrow, too tired to come up with a good lie, and the words are seeping out of him as quietly and steadily as his tears. “No, Jon, you didn’t say anything wrong. Saying that you love me isn’t wrong. I’m sorry because I can’t say it back to you. I’m sorry that I kept away from you for so long and came back like this, broken. I’m sorry all my feelings are so much _less_ now, like, like a t-shirt faded in the wash. I _did_ love you, I _really_ loved you,” Martin repeats, because apparently he can say the words just fine as long as it’s not in the present tense. “And I promise I still care about you, I do, I just don’t think I can call it love, not anymore.”

”It’s all right, Martin,” Jon says gently. “When I came back to the Institute after my coma, I thought you hated me. Honestly, I wouldn’t have blamed you. I think you might be the only person who _doesn’t_ hate me at this point. Then, when I realized what you were doing, what Peter had done, I thought I might lose you forever. Now we’re both here together, alive, and safe at least for the moment. That’s already more than I could have hoped for.”

“I don’t hate you, Jon. I could never hate you,” Martin says. “And I _want_ to love you. I’m just not sure if I can. I don’t know if I can love anyone, anymore.”

”Do you remember what you told me, back before the Unknowing?” Jon asks. “You said ‘It’s not too late, unless the world ends,’ and somehow, despite everything, the world hasn’t ended yet. Martin, you waited for half a year while I was in a coma. I waited for months while you singlehandedly fooled Peter Lukas and foiled his plans. We’ve both waited so long alone, we can wait a bit longer together. Besides, there are many kinds of love, it doesn’t have to be romantic. You wouldn’t have been able to follow me out of The Lonely if I hadn’t meant _something_ to you.”

”What if it’s not just ‘a bit longer’?” Martin asks. “What if this is just how I am now? What if I can never love you properly?”

”Then we’ll both love each other the best we can,” Jon says, so gently Martin’s certain he doesn’t understand.

“That’s not fair. You deserve—“

”I’m a monster that feeds on trauma and haunts people’s nightmares, Martin; let’s not talk about what I _deserve_.”

“Don’t—that’s not—you shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.” Martin stammers. It bothers him to hear Jon talking about himself like he’s not human, like he’s not deserving of care or affection. Jon who cares so much for others that he mutilated his body and risked his life to help the woman who’d once tried to kill him. Jon who risked his life again and even committed murder to save a person who’d spent months avoiding him, who insisted that he didn’t want to be saved. Caring, loving, self-sacrificing Jon. If he’s a monster then what does that make Martin, who can’t even say three simple words in return? “You _do_ deserve love, it’s not your fault I just can’t—“

”I’m serious, Martin. You don’t _owe_ that to me,” Jon says fiercely. “You don’t owe me some, some specific level of affection or, or romantic feeling, or anything like that. You don’t _owe_ me anything. I don’t want you to stay with me out of some sense of obligation, or, or guilt. I’m the one who was so determined to drive you away for so long, to distance myself out of some sense of inferiority, or paranoia, or fear of rejection. I did this to you just as much as Peter Lukas did. Just because I finally got my head out of my arse enough to admit what you mean to me, that doesn’t mean I expect anything in return.”

”What, so it’s all right for _you_ to cling to love out of guilt, but not me?” Martin snaps.

”It’s not guilt,” Jon says sharply.

Martin arches an eyebrow.

”Oh, all right, fine, I _do_ feel guilty about the way I treated you, and I have a _right_ to, but that’s not what this is about! I love you, Martin, and—“ Jon breaks off with a sound of frustration, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Ergh, why am I so _bad_ at this?”

The silence stretches between them, and Martin again considers getting up and going inside. He could make Jon tea, try to smooth things over just a bit between them. Then they could sit on the couch in the front room, where it would be warmer and Jon might stop shivering like he’s about to shake himself apart. He’s just setting down his mug and starting to shift his legs in preparation to stand when Jon shoots to his feet beside him.

”I have to—to get—get something,” Jon stammers, quivering with excitement or nervous energy. “From the bedroom. I’ll be right back, s-so don’t go any—don’t go, just promise me you’ll stay right here.”

Martin considers making some quip about ‘Does it look like I’m going anywhere?’ or ‘Where else would I go?’ but he swallows it down. They’re both aware of exactly where Martin might go, how closely The Lonely tries to cling to him even now, how easy it would be for him to slip back there. So instead Martin says only, “I promise.” Then he holds Jon’s face firmly in his mind and ignores the threads of mist that trail around his ankles until Jon returns.

”I knew I’d packed it!” Jon exclaims, flourishing a thick volume titled _The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay._ “Just wait a moment while I find the right one—honestly, Millay was as bad at labeling her work as Gertrude. There’s a poem in here that says what I feel for you better than I can.”

“I thought you didn’t like poetry,” Martin says dully, watching the tendrils of fog as they slowly retreat from where they’d begun wrapping around his lower legs. He should probably feel something about this revelation—joy at discovering a new side of Jon, frustration and betrayal at being previously misled, _something_ —but the most he can manage is vague curiosity about why Jon is bringing it up now.

”I said I didn’t like _Keats_ ,” Jon retorts. “He’s hardly emblematic of _all poets_. Millay is just so much more _straightforward_ about her feelings, without masking them in convoluted metaphors, and when there is imagery it _makes sense_ , none of that circuitous ‘I wish I was like a star—no not like that, in the sky and watching everything—but just lying awake all night while the person I love sleeps near me.’ And her feelings are more relatable: you can’t make me love you, you can’t make me keep loving you if I fall out of love, you can’t make me stop loving you if I decide to love you forever, I can love you and still love other things, if you love me you need to respect my boundaries and my privacy, and so on.” He stops and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, sorry, I—I know you like Keats. That’s not—I don’t want to argue with you or—or make you feel like _you_ shouldn’t like his poetry because _I’m_ not fond of it.” He takes a deep breath and continues softly, “It’s just, I hope you’ll like this too or, at least, that it will explain to you how I feel better than I can.”

Then Jon starts to _read_ the poem to him, eyes darting up to fix on Martin’s with intensity after every line, as if checking to make sure that Martin is listening, that he understands how much Jon means every word. 

Martin wants to tell Jon to stop, that it’s too much, he can’t handle it, that any more kindness might break him. Except the thought that Jon might stop is somehow just as unbearable as the thought he might continue. 

”I love you, Martin,” Jon says when he finishes, making eye contact so firmly it’s almost painful. “I love you and I’m going to keep loving you. That doesn’t mean you have to love me back, or love me in the same way. You certainly don’t have to fake something you don’t feel just to keep me next to you. I just want you to know you’re not alone,” Jon squeezes Martin’s hand, mercifully looking down at where their fingers clasp together. “I’m right here, and I’m not going to leave you, not unless you tell me to. You don’t have to be lonely anymore.”

There it is again, that barest flicker of emotion deep in his chest. It’s not love, at least not the painful avalanche of feeling he’s always associated with that word. It’s a soft blooming warmth, a tender ache like a fresh bruise, but this time Martin wants to press on it, lean into the feeling until he understands it instead of pushing it away.

”I think I might have a poem of my own for you, if you don’t mind waiting,” Martin says softly after a moment, feeling the first words of it beginning to take shape in his mind. “I’m a bit rusty, so it might take me a while, and it probably won’t be very good, at least not to your standards, but...”

”I’d be honored to read it, if you feel like sharing it with me,” Jon says.

”And I might...might want to hear you read that poem to me again,” Martin says, squeezing his eyes shut as he forces the words out past the lump in his throat. “Just, every now and then, to remind me. Please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

”Of course,” Jon squeezes his hand again. “As many times as you want to hear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the following poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (which Jon reads to Martin in this fic), first published October 1930:
> 
> I know my mind and I have made my choice.  
> Not from your temper does my doom depend;  
> Love me or love me not, you have no voice  
> In this, that is my portion to the end.  
> Your presence and your favors, the full part  
> That you could give, you now can take away:  
> What lies between your beauty and my heart  
> Not even you can trouble or betray.  
> Mistake me not—unto my inmost core  
> I do desire your kiss upon my mouth;  
> They have not craved a cup of water more  
> That bleach upon the deserts of the south:  
> Here might you bless me; what you cannot do  
> Is bow me down, that have been loved by you.  
> 


End file.
